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"I tell you what, fellows," he said to a group of his comrades, after being relieved from his trick at the
helm, "we've learned such a lot on this trip that I feel ashamed to think how little we really knew when
we started."
"Yes," replied Cracker Bob Jones, "but we know more now than we even thought we did when we left
Berks."
Early in the afternoon the sloop reached the island, on which the excited boys had already distinguished
the tops of tents and a number of gayly fluttering flags. There was a good harbor around a point, but
the channel to it was very narrow, and so beset with reefs that the skipper was proceeding with unusual
caution. Suddenly, as they were close to the point, a fleet of canoes, under full sail and evidently racing,
swept out from behind it. So excited were their occupants that they took no notice of the on-coming
sloop, and a collision was imminent. To avert it the skipper jammed his helm hard down. The sloop
luffed sharply into the wind, and in another moment brought up with a crash that threw every Ranger
to the deck. She heeled so far over that they thought she was surely going to capsize, then slowly slid
off into deep water and righted. As she did so young Jabe rushed up from below and reported that a
torrent of water was pouring into the hold.

[to be continued.]
 OAKLEIGH.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER XVII.

With dripping clothes and a sad heart Cynthia went up to the house after Neal had left her. She was
bitterly disappointed and extremely uncomfortable. Her hair, never very securely fastened, had fallen
down and lay in a wet mass about her face and neck; her hat felt heavy as lead, and water oozed from
her shoes as she walked.
"Nothing will ever be right again," she thought, as she gave a depressed glance at all the familiar
objects on the place. "I feel as if it were going to rain forever, and the sun would never shine again. It
would have been so different if Neal had only come home!"
Mrs. Franklin was thankful to see her appear, and refrained from reproaching her until she had been
thoroughly dried and warmed. Then all she said was:
"I thought you would never come, Cynthia! Was it worth while to go on the river such a morning as
this?"
"No, mamma; but you will forgive me when you hear why I went," said Cynthia, setting down the cup
of ginger tea which Mary Ann had made so hot and so strong that she could scarcely swallow it. "But
tell me how Edith is, first."
"She is about the same. She seems anxious about something. She is restless and uneasy, but it is
difficult for her to speak. Perhaps she wants you. I think that is it, for you know I do not satisfy her,"
added Mrs. Franklin, with a sigh.
Cynthia knelt beside her, and put her arms around her. "Dear mamma!" she said, lovingly.
Mrs. Franklin rested her head on her step-daughter's shoulder. "Cynthia darling, you are a great comfort
to me! Are you sure you feel perfectly warm? You must not take cold."
"I'm as warm as toast. It won't hurt me a bit; you know I never take cold. But let me tell you something
—the reason I went. You could never guess! I went to see some one."
Mrs. Franklin raised her head and looked at Cynthia.
"You can't mean—"
"Yes, I do. Neal!"
"Child, where is he? Is he here? Has he come back?"
"No, mamma," said Cynthia, shaking her head sadly, "he wouldn't come. I begged and implored him to,
but he wouldn't."
"Oh, Cynthia, why didn't you tell me? I could have made him come; I would have gone down on my
knees to him! Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because he said I mustn't. He sent me a note yesterday. I knew he would never forgive me if I told."
"Yesterday! You knew he was coming yesterday? Cynthia, you ought to have told!"
"But, mamma, he told me not to, and I didn't have time to think it over, for we were so frightened with
Edith's accident. It all came at once. But you could not have made him come."
"Where is he now?"
"He has gone to Pelham to take the train, and he is going to write to me, mamma. He says he—he is
going to work."
"My poor boy!" said Mrs. Franklin, going to the window. "Tramping about the country such a day as this
without a home! I wonder if he has any money, Cynthia?"
"I don't know, mamma."
Neither of them remembered that Neal had wilfully deserted his home, and that it was entirely his own
fault if he had no money in his pockets.
"Cynthia," said Mrs. Franklin, turning abruptly and facing her daughter, "I want you to understand that I
don't think Neal took that money. I cannot believe it. I am sure he got it in some other way. Why do you
look so odd, Cynthia?"
There was no answer.
"I believe you know something about it. Tell me!"
Still no answer.
"Could you have helped him in any way? Where would you get it? Why, of course! How stupid we have
all been! You had Aunt Betsey's present; you never spent it, you would not buy the watch. Cynthia, you
cannot deny it; I have guessed it!"
The next moment Mrs. Franklin was enveloped in a vigorous hug.
"You dear darling, I'm so thankful you have! He wouldn't let me tell, but I said this morning I wouldn't
deny it if you happened to guess."
"Oh, Cynthia, though I said I didn't believe the other, this has taken a thousand-pound weight from my
heart!"
They were interrupted by the entrance of the nurse, who came to say that her patient was growing
more uneasy, and she thought some one had better come to her. At the same moment Mr. Franklin
arrived, so Cynthia went alone to her sister.
She found her perfectly conscious, with large, wide-open eyes, watching for her. Edith's head was
bound up, and the pretty hands, of which she had always been somewhat vain, moved restlessly.
Cynthia took one of them in her warm, firm grasp, and leaned over the bed.
"Dearest, you wanted me," she said, in a low voice; "I am going to stay with you now."
But Edith was not satisfied. She tried to say something, but in so faint a voice that Cynthia could not
hear.
"I can't hear you," she said, in distress. "Don't try to speak; it will tire you."
But still Edith persisted. Cynthia put her ear close to her sister.
"Did you say 'mamma'?" she asked.
The great brown eyes said "Yes."
"Do you want her?"
No, that was not it. Cynthia thought a moment.
"Oh. I know!" she exclaimed. "You are sorry about the drive, Edith; is that it? You want mamma to
forgive you?"
"Yes."
Cynthia flew down stairs.
"Mamma, mamma!" she cried, scarcely
heeding her father, whom she had not seen
before, "come quickly! I have found out what
Edith wants. She wants you to forgive her for
going to drive, and you will, won't you?"
And in a few minutes, satisfied, Edith fell
asleep with her hand in that of her mother's.
Many people came to inquire for Edith, for
the news of her accident spread like wildfire.
Cynthia was obliged to see them all, as Edith
would scarcely let her mother go out of her
sight. Now that her pride had given way, she "I CAN'T HEAR YOU," SHE SAID. "DON'T TRY TO
showed how completely her step-mother had SPEAK."
won her heart, entirely against her own will.
Among others came Gertrude Morgan.
"And how is your dear friend Tony Bronson?" asked Cynthia. "He nearly killed Edith; what did he do to
himself?"
"Oh, he didn't get very much hurt—at least he didn't show it much. He went home right away. He
thought he had better."
"Well, I should think he might have had the grace to come and inquire for Edith, after upsetting her in
that style, and almost breaking her neck."
"He seemed to think he ought to get home. He thought he might be a good deal hurt, only it didn't
come out just at first. He said there were inward bruises."
"Inward bruises!" repeated Cynthia, scornfully. "I guess the inward bruise was that he was ashamed of
himself for letting the horse run away. Now don't you really think so, Gertrude? Don't you think yourself
that it was outrageous of him not to find out more about Edith before he went?"
Gertrude was forced to acknowledge that she did think so; and, furthermore, she confessed that her
brother Dennis was so enraged at Bronson's conduct that he declared he should never be asked there
again.
"I'm glad of it!" declared Cynthia, emphatically. "It's about time you all found out what a cad that
Bronson is. If you knew as much as I know about him you would have come to that conclusion long
ago."
"Oh, of course you are prejudiced by Neal Gordon! I wouldn't take his word for anything. By-the-way,
have you seen him lately?"
"Yes, very lately. He came out to Brenton the other day."
"Did he, really?" cried Gertrude, curiously. "I thought he was never coming back. The last story was that
your father had turned him out-of-doors."
"How perfectly absurd! I should think you knew enough about us to contradict that, Gertrude! Will you
please tell every one there is no truth in it, at all?"
"But where is he now? Is he here? Why has nobody seen him? Wasn't any of it true?"
"Dear me, Gertrude, you are nothing but a big interrogation point!" laughed Cynthia, who had no
intention of replying to any of these questions; and Gertrude, baffled and somewhat ashamed of
herself, soon took her departure without having learned anything beyond the fact that Neal had lately
been in town and, as she supposed, at his sister's.
Aunt Betsey came from Wayborough as soon as she heard of what happened. It was her first visit there
since the death of Silas Green, and naturally she was much affected.
"Cynthy, my dear," she said, after talking about him for some time to her nieces, "let me give you a
word of warning: Never put off till to-morrow what can be done to-day! It is a good proverb, and worth
remembrance. If I hadn't put off and put off, and been so unwilling to give up my view, I might have
made Silas's last years happier. Perhaps he'd have been here yet if I'd been with him to take care of
him. Oh, one has to give up—one has to give up in this world!"
They were in Edith's room, and Edith, listening, felt that Aunt Betsey was right. She, too, had learned—
many, many years earlier in life than did her aunt—that one must learn to give up.
Miss Betsey did not look the same. The gay dress that she once wore was discarded, and she was
soberly clad in black. She really was not unlike other people now, but her speech was as quaint as ever.
She brought Willy's present with her, and was shocked to find that Janet's had never been received.
"Well, now, I want to know!" she exclaimed, rocking violently. "I did it up with my own hands. I
remember it exactly, for it was a few days after the funeral, and I was that flustered I could scarcely tie
the cord or hold the pen. It was a large rag doll I had made for the child, just about life size, and a face
as natural as a baby's. And I made a nice little satchel to hang at the side, and in the satchel was the
money. Too bad she didn't get it! I remember I gave it to old Mr. Peters to mail. He was going down
Tottenham way, and he said he'd take it to the post-office there. He'd stopped to see if there was
anything he could do for me just as I was tying it up, so I let him take it along. He's half blind, and just
as likely as not he went to the meeting-house instead of the post-office. He wouldn't know them apart.
You may depend upon it, it warn't Government's fault you didn't get it. Of that I'm very sure."
And, true to her principles, the patriotic little lady rocked again. No one told her of the suspicion which
had rested upon Neal. It would have distressed her too deeply, and nothing would be gained by it.
"And now, Jack, I must see those little orphans," she said to her great-nephew, when he came home
that afternoon. "Poor little things, are they at all happy?"
Jack led her in triumph to the poultry-yard.
"Well, I want to know!" she exclaimed, throwing up her mitted hands when she saw six or seven
hundred very contented-looking fowls of all sizes, kinds, and ages, each brood in its allotted habitation,
pecking, running, crowing, and clucking, and enjoying life generally.
"You don't mean to say, Jackie, that not one of these hens ever had any mother but that heartless box
in the cellar? Well, I want to know! They do look real contented. Do tell!"
Her nephew proudly assured her that they appeared to be exceedingly happy, and that he also was
happy; for they paid well, and he would soon be able to return the money that he had borrowed of her.
And indeed in a few weeks Jack travelled out to Wayborough, and with his own hands gave back to his
aunt the seventy-five dollars which she so kindly had advanced to him, and which he had earned with
his own hard work.
The best part of it all was when his father spoke to him with unqualified praise.
"I am really proud of my son, Jack," he said. "You have done well. I have watched you carefully, and I
saw the plucky way in which you met your discouragements. It makes me feel that I have a son worth
having. Keep at it, my boy. If you put the same pluck and perseverance into everything you undertake
you will make a name some day."
And when Jack remembered how his father had frowned down the idea of the incubator he felt more
pleased than ever.
One day a letter came to Cynthia from Neal. It was the first they had received. Mr. Carpenter had
written to Mrs. Franklin, telling her that Neal was with him, and that he had taken him into his office;
and Hester wrote to her brother at once, but he answered neither that letter nor the many that
followed. He was still obdurate. It was an exciting moment, therefore, when Cynthia recognized the
bold, boyish handwriting on the envelope.
"Dear Cynth [he wrote],—I promised to write to you, so here goes. I am living with Cousin William
Carpenter, and probably shall for the rest of my days. He is in the lumber business, and lumber is
awfully poky. However, I'm earning my living. Did you ever see a Quaker? They are a queer lot. It would
not do for you to be one, for they never get excited. If the house got on fire Cousin William and Cousin
Rachel would walk calmly about and 'thee' and 'thou' each other as quietly as ever. They don't say
'thou,' though. Cousin William says it has become obsolete.
"I do nothing but measure boards and write down figures. Boards are tiresome things. I go to Quaker
meeting sometimes, though I should say Friends' meeting. They call themselves Friends. All the men sit
on one side and all the women on the other, and the men keep their hats on all through. Sometimes
there isn't any sermon and sometimes there are five or six, just as it happens. The women preach too,
if they feel like it. One day it was terribly still, and I was just beginning to think I should blow up and
bust if somebody didn't say something—had serious thoughts of giving a sermon myself—when I heard
a familiar voice, and I looked over, and there was Cousin Rachel preaching away for dear life. And a
mighty good sermon it was, too—better than any of the men's.
"Cousin William takes me to see the sights on Saturday (or, rather, Seventh day, as he would say)
afternoon, and I have been about myself a good deal. I would like to get to know the people, but have
no chance. I wish you would write to a fellow, Cynth. I would like to see you pretty awfully much. How
you did give it to me that day on the river! You were a brick, though, to come. I have not forgotten
what you said. I am going to show you I am no coward, though you said I was. I'll stick at the lumber
trade until I die in the harness, and here's my hand and seal!
"Yours,
"Neal Gordon.
"P.S.—Give my love to Hessie. I hope Edith is coming round all right."
It was better than nothing, though Mrs. Franklin wished that the letter had been to her. Still, it was far,
far better than if it had not been written at all. And then he had sent his love to her. It was in a
postscript, and was probably an after-thought, but she was glad he did it. He seemed well and
moderately happy, and for that his sister was very grateful. Fortunately Hester could not read between
the lines, and learn that the boy was eating his heart out with homesickness and a longing to see his
only sister.
Neal found this quiet life, so far from his family and friends, very different from that to which he had
been accustomed, and sometimes it seemed very dreary and hard to bear. Then, again, he was quite
unused to steady occupation, and his cousin demanded unflagging attention to business. It was good
for the boy, just what he needed; but that made it none the less irksome.

[to be continued.]
 WATER LIFE AROUND NEW YORK.
BY JULIAN RALPH.

What an odd thing a boatman's dream of the water life around New York would be if all the vessels and
craft of every kind should take to themselves grotesque shapes and characters, as familiar objects are
apt to do in human dreams! We have had some great and notable water parades in our harbor—the last
and greatest being that queer hooting and tooting procession of many kinds of craft that swept around
the war-ships of ten or a dozen great nations at our Columbus celebration in the early summer of 1893.
But the boatman's dream of which I was thinking would be far stranger than that, because the
Columbian naval review included only the handy, easily manageable steam-craft of New York, like the
steamships and steamboats and tugs and tow-boats. It left out all the really queer floating things that
have such shapes as to almost turn a dream into a nightmare.
The dreaming boatman of whom I am thinking would see great water-giraffes, which would really be
our floating grain-elevators; and a myriad sea-spiders transformed from our darting tug-boats, and
great groaning mother-gulls dragging large coveys of helpless babies in their wake Those would be the
tow-boats with their long trains of canal-boats. Turtles he would see by the score—huge flat, almost
round turtles—some red, some white, some brown. Those would be the ferry-boats,-which really do
look just like great sea-turtles when you are looking down upon their flat backs from a high place like
the Brooklyn Bridge. Like fearful black ocean sharks would be the Atlantic steamers—long and thin—out
of whose way every other moving thing flies when they approach. Our huge and towering palace boats
of the Sound would turn into great white elephants, trumpeting as if they had all caught cold in their
long snouts. And we shall see that many another animal and creature would easily appear to the
troubled dreamer without greatly altering the shapes of the queer craft that have grown out of nearly
three hundred years of needs and developments in the water-life around New York.
I suppose that the reader has heard that
almost every Chinaman in this country comes
from the water population near Canton. That
must be a wonderful phase of life, where so
many hundreds of thousands of persons are
actually born upon the water, to live out their
lives upon the water, and to die upon the
water. They form a river population housed
in boats that make up a city far more
peculiar than Venice—a floating city of stores
and work-shops, boarding-houses,
amusement places, saloons, and all the rest.
We have nothing of the sort around New
York. The nearest approach to that condition
is to be seen in the large docks on the East THE CANALLERS ON THE EAST RIVER.
River near the Battery, and one at
Communipaw on the New Jersey shore,
where the canal-boats collect with the boatmen and their wives and children aboard them. There one
sees by the kitchen smoke-stacks above the cabin roofs, by the lines of drying linen on the decks, by
the sight of women sewing and knitting under cooling awnings, and by the views of children and cats
and dogs playing upon the boats—by all these things one sees how truly the canal-boats are floating
homes as well as merchant vessels. At night the sounds of singing and fiddling—sometimes the nasal
notes of house organs—tell more of this strange water life. Some of the cabins of these canal-boats are
quite attractive. They show dainty white lace curtains in the tiny square windows, carpets on the floors,
boxes of flowers upon the cabin roofs, and cleanly, neatly clad mothers and little children. This is not
the rule, however, and we see enough, whenever we visit the canallers, to show that there is at least
some reason for their being generally regarded as a rude and rough class.
Yet, apart from these canallers, we have enough persons who live on the water to form what would be
called a city out West. They are mainly men who sleep in bunks and eat in the cabins of tug-boats,
steam passenger boats, freighters, and the like. A few women are among them—stewardesses of
passenger boats and the wives of the captains of the other sorts of vessels. Of course I do not include
here the men on the ships that sail the ocean. Their homes are really at sea. I only refer to the scores
of thousands of persons who live upon boats that may be called the horses of the harbor, because they
tie up regularly every night at certain piers, and every morning are sent to work, here and there, at this
place or that, to carry goods or passengers, or to haul other boats. It is doubtful whether many children
are born in these shifting homes, but there is no doubt that very many girls and boys sleep upon them,
and are sent from them to the city's schools, and, later, to the factories and shops to earn their living.
Of all the uncommon forms that boats take, the newest, instead of being strange and complicated like
most nineteenth-century inventions, are almost as simple as anything that floats. Only rafts of logs are
more simple than what we call our "car-floats." They are the newest type of boats we know, and have
come into being because New York city is on an island, with only a few railroads crossing to it from the
mainland. The other great and little railways, which bring and take goods and people to and from New
York, all stop on the opposite shores of our harbor, in New Jersey, Staten Island, and Long Island. Since
the cars of one railroad often have to go past the city upon the other roads, these "floats" are used to
transport them around our island, so that goods from Boston or Sag Harbor, for instance, can be sent
around New York to the tracks of the roads that will carry them to San Francisco without unloading or
reloading. The floats that carry these cars are merely boxes, the shape of great dominoes, with railroad
tracks laid upon them. Some carry six freight-cars, some carry eight, and some carry ten cars. Tiny little
propellers that we call "tug-boats" are warped or hitched alongside of these clumsy floating boxes,
where they look as a little kitten would appear beside a big St. Bernard dog, or as a locomotive would
look beside a house. But our queer, snorting, fussy little tug-boats march away with every floating thing
to which they are hitched—even dragging huge Atlantic steamships at their sides—because they reach
deep down into the water, where their big screws, driven by very powerful engines, obtain a mighty
hold. Because our tug-boats are so small, and yet so strong, they are able to move swiftly when they
have no burdens to carry. In the boatman's dream that I spoke of they would seem like those water-
spiders that many of us have seen darting hither and thither on the top of placid pools. But there is one
reason why they are not at all alike—that is, that the water-spiders are as silent as death, while the tug-
boats are the most noisy, saucy, boisterous of make-believe animals—always gasping, and snorting, and
whistling, and thrashing about as very little people are often apt to do.
The "floats" that carry passengers around New York so that they can go to Boston from Philadelphia or
Chicago without changing cars (and even without getting out of bed on the sleeping cars), are not
floats at all. They are very powerful and large steamboats, with decks covered with iron plates, with car
tracks on those decks, and with arrangements for locking the car wheels fast to the tracks, so that no
matter how boisterous the water may be on stormy days, the cars cannot break loose and roll
overboard. We have several queer sorts of boats and other floating objects that look like floating
houses. Among them are what we call our floating baths, and our floating docks, and our cattle and ice
barges. But there is one kind of floating building that looks like a tower or a steeple riding the waters
and steering itself around. That strange thing—and we employ many such—is a floating grain-elevator.
It is a tall four-sided tower built upon a squat snub-nosed boat. It has a great proboscis, that it sticks
down into canal-boats full of grain, which it sucks or dips out so that it can load the grain into the holds
of ships that are to carry it to Europe. Our floating baths are square one-story houses, hollow in the
middle, where the bathers swim, with lattice-work or perforated boards under them to let in the water
without letting out the bathers. They are decorated with little towers and flag-staffs, and look very
strange indeed when they are being towed to the city in the early summer to be moored beside a wharf,
or when, after the bathing season is over, they are dragged away to be laid up for the winter. Our
floating docks, upon which all but the very large ships and steamboats are lifted out of the water to
have their hulls painted, cleaned, or repaired, are made of many boxes joined together. These boxes
 sink when full of water, and thus it is possible to steer a
vessel right over them. Then the water is pumped out
of the boxes, and the dock (in reality a cradle rather
than a dock) rises, and lifts the vessel up high and dry
so that workmen can walk all around and under her to
scrape off the barnacles that have grown fast to her, or
to paint her bottom, or to sheathe it with copper.
The barges for carrying cattle and those for carrying ice
are just like the toys that are made for children and
called "Noah's Arks." They are houses built upon strong
boat hulls. The ice-barges are always white, and canvas
windmill wheels are forever whirling above them, just
as if they were some new kind of boats made to go by
air propellers instead of wheels or screws in the water.
The truth is, of course, that these canvas wheels work
the pumps that pump out the water made by the
constant melting of the ice. But of all the kinds of
barges that work in the New York waters the hay-
barges are surely the most interesting. They are very
large, and the houses built upon their hulls are open at
the sides, with only a railing where the walls should be.
FLOATING GRAIN ELEVATOR. These are two-storied houses, and the floors that
support hay in the winter are dancing platforms in the
summer. These hay-barges are our picnic
boats also. All winter long, or as long as the
waters are unfrozen, they bring down hay
from the Hudson River landings, but in the
summer they go out of that business, and
are hired out to Sunday-schools, political
clubs, secret societies, church societies, and
the like, to carry picnickers to what are called
the excursion parks that are found along the ICE-BARGES IN TOW.
Hudson River and the Sound at several
hours' distance from the metropolis. Tug-
boats drag these barges to the excursion parks, and the holiday crowds upon the two open decks of the
barges dance all the time to the music of the band that they hire for the occasion. The stop at the
excursion park is a short one—just long enough for luncheon and a little strolling under the trees, or
bathing on the beach. Then the homeward journey is begun, and the dancing on the barge is
recommenced and kept up until the city is reached, just before bedtime. Our great excursion
steamboats, that run to Coney Island and Rockaway, are built on the same plan—wide open—and carry
such great crowds of pleasure-seekers that they are black with passengers. These are sometimes hired
by richer and more numerous bodies than those that hire the hay-barges, but I can assure my readers
that the real jubilant fun is on the common barges, where the people are apt to be simple and
democratic, and ready to surrender themselves to those pleasures of which they enjoy too little.
Our pilot-boats which go out to sea with many brave men, and leave them one by one on the
steamships that they meet—in order that those great vessels may be safely steered into port—are very
romantic boats, but they look like mere sail-boats or yachts. Some splendid yachts become pilot-boats
when they grow too old-fashioned to keep pace with the faster and faster boats that we are forever
building. Other such yachts become oyster-boats, and lie beside Fulton Fish Market in company with the
tank-steamers that bring fish into New York. These tank-steamers go to Nantucket, or wherever the
fishing-smacks are at work, and lie there while sail-boat after sail-boat fill up with fish and bring their
loads to be kept in the refrigerated-tanks of the steamer, until she, also, is filled and ready to come to
the city.
Of the "whalebacks," or cigar-shaped iron ships that were first made to traverse the great lakes, I will
say very little, because they belong to no place in particular, and excite as much curiosity here as
anywhere. Our floating pile-drivers, which look like ladders set upon boxes, are very curious-looking
vessels, but are familiar at all ports. Perhaps our immigrant barges, which carry the immigrants from
Ellis Island (where they are landed) to the wharves of the railways by which they are to seek homes in
the West, are peculiar to New York, but they are mere hay-barges like the excursion boats I have
already described. The busy craft that carry fresh drinking-water to the sailing-ships are usually very
ordinary tug-boats, and are only peculiar because each one carries a great sign bearing the word
"WATER" painted upon it. To see such a vessel all by itself upon a great expanse of salt water suggests
Coleridge's line in The Ancient Mariner,
"Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink."
If it were not for those water-bearers—serving the same purpose as the camels laden with water-bags
upon the desert of Sahara—there truly would not be a drop to drink.
I fancy that what we call our "lighters" are the only descendants that recall the old days of the Dutch on
Manhattan Island. They are sail-boats that are used to carry goods from or to vessels that do not come
to the wharves, but lie out in the open water. They are very old-fashioned and foreign-looking, built
almost solidly of heavy wood, and of a shape very like a turtle and quite as clumsy. Each one carries a
short thick mast that looks as if it had been broken off, and a little narrow sail, absurdly disproportioned
to the vessel. Everything these lighters carry is put upon their decks, and they are so slow and so hard
to steer and so strong that all other craft give them a wide berth. It is only a fancy of mine, yet I never
see one without thinking that this style of boat surely descended to us from the Dutch.
 A FREE ENTERTAINMENT IN THE SAHARA.
The learned Professor Ducardanoy, and his assistant, Bouchardy, had been toiling along the desert's
edge all day. They had hoped to reach the Algerian settlement of Nouvelle Saar-Louis before night, but
the sun was getting near the blank western horizon of yellow sand, and the low mountain upon which
Nouvelle Saar-Louis was built, the last southern foot-hill of the Atlas, was still some twenty miles away
to the east.
"We shall have to camp here in the sand, and push on in the morning," said the learned Ducardanoy,
who was, as all his contemporaries knew, the most renowned living chiropodist.
"I fear we shall," said the assistant, Bouchardy, who was not, it must be understood, an assistant in
Ducardanoy's surgery, but merely an unscientific fellow who managed the magic-lantern, ate wool, and
breathed fire, and did the other things which constituted the grand free entertainment preceding
Ducardanoy's evening lectures on the science of chiropody, in the course of which he was accustomed
to perform a few gratuitous operations with Ducardanoy's Corn Cure to prove its efficacy. "I fear we
shall," said Bouchardy; "but what is that building a mile or so to the south? Perhaps we had better go
there."
"Ah! ha!" said Ducardanoy, looking through a field-glass; "it is an old Roman tower. Undoubtedly it is,
for there is nothing Moorish about it, and the Romans and French are the only people who have erected
anything more substantial than tents in this part of Algeria."
"I think we had better go there," said Bouchardy, "and go rapidly, too. Look behind you."
Away off to the west, galloping along in the track of the setting sun, was a cavalcade of horsemen.
"Spahis," said Ducardanoy, calmly.
"Perhaps so," said Bouchardy. "Perhaps French cavalry, and perhaps Arab robbers. Who knows? It is
best to be prepared. If you choose you may stay here to sleep in the sand to-night, and perhaps for all
the nights thereafter forever; but as for me, I am going to the Roman castle," and he spurred on his
horse and arrived at the tower some minutes after the learned Ducardanoy, who was better mounted
than he, and, moreover, was not burdened with a magic-lantern and other appliances used in the free
entertainment. They found the tower to be nothing more than a plain round edifice with a single upper
chamber in it, reached by a flight of narrow winding stairs ascending in a gentle incline. Up these stairs
they led their horses, as the Roman frontier guards had done centuries before, and then looked out of
the loop-holes for the approaching enemy.
"We can easily keep any of them from coming up the stairs," said Bouchardy.
"And they can easily keep us from coming down," said Ducardanoy. "But perhaps they have not seen
us."
They were soon satisfied on that score, for the cavalcade of horsemen—thirty-five wild desert Arabs—
halted before the tower, and in broken French commanded the chiropodist and his assistant to
surrender. This command was not obeyed. The Arabs laughed and picketed their horses, and after a
little a caravan of camels bearing tents and women and children arrived, and the Arabs went into camp
for the night.
"If they kill us, the French government will wipe them from the face of the earth," said Ducardanoy,
along toward the middle of the night.
"If the French government finds it out. But the death of those scoundrels will not bring me to life," said
Bouchardy. "I think it will be well to make a sortie."
"They would hear us taking the horses down; and if we start on foot we can't get so far away before
daylight that they could not soon discover us by making scouts into the desert. Besides, I imagine that
the entrance to the tower is guarded."
"When morning comes, I will eat wool and breathe fire and scare them away," said Bouchardy.
"To do that you must show yourself," said Ducardanoy. "And they will fill you full of lead while you are
filling yourself with wool. But if we can scare them, it will be the only way we can get rid of them."
"I have it," said Bouchardy.
A moment later the sentinel at the foot of the town gave an exclamation of surprise, for there, opposite
him, against the white walls of the Sheik's tent, in the midst of a blaze of light, stood a French soldier
bowing to him. Promptly he sighted his ancient flint-lock, and sent a bullet between the soldier's eyes.
"Mashallah," said the sentinel, for the soldier kept on bowing, and the hole in his head moved from his
nose to the roots of his hair and back again as he did so.
"The devil himself," said the sentinel: and even before he finished saying it, the soldier had vanished,
and there stood the devil—a huge black fellow grinning and bowing.
Bang! went the sentinel's gun again, and by this time the whole camp was aroused and staring at the
Sheik's tent, muttering and moaning the while. The tent flap opened and the Sheik himself stepped out,
and immediately there appeared on the white robes across his broad chest a great bloody splash, in the
midst of which shone a hideous death's head. A cry of terror arose, and the Arabs began scurrying
about in the darkness, saddling their horses and camels, the women and children screaming, and in the
midst of the confusion there appeared in a loop-hole of the tower the face of a man illuminated by the
glow of the fire he was breathing. Picket-ropes and saddle-girths were dropped, and those who were
not already mounted rushed away on foot.
"We took in more money from that entertainment than we ever did in a year from the sales of corn
medicine after our ordinary entertainments," said Bouchardy. "They have left behind them forty camels,
ten horses, twelve Damascus swords, six silver pipes, eighteen bales of silk, thirty-five gold bracelets,
six dozen rings, eight gold inlaid bridles, and we haven't looked in the Sheik's treasure-chest yet. Let us
abandon the profession of chiropody, and buy estates at Nouvelle Saar-Louis. It is a pleasant place to
live in, and will be convenient for us in case we start out on other expeditions to be robbed by Arab
tribes."
W. A. Curtis.
 KENNIBOY'S CIRCUS.
I'd like to own a circus show. A splendid one 'twould be;
Unlike the circus shows that in these days boys go to see.
I wouldn't have a leopard or a lion in the place,
Nor would I let a monkey show his ugly little face.

But I would fill it up with things like fairies, elves, and gnomes,
Such as we read about in books of fairy tales and "pomes."
I'd have a big volcano throwing flames up to the sky,
And real cold icy icebergs, with great whales a-swimming by.

And in a little side-show I would have a burning lake,

And in another there would be a fearful big earthquake.
And 'stead o' camels, 'rang-o-tangs, and other stupid things,
I'd have a lot o' cages chock up full o' Queens and Kings.

And then I'd have a pair o' huge big ogres with one eye,
And four-and-twenty puppy-dogs all baked into a pie,
For them to eat at show-time, so that little boys could see
How really awful terrible those ogre-men can be.

I'd have a hen to lay gold eggs, and harps that play
themselves,
And bags and bags o' bean-stalk beans a-climbing over
shelves;
And Jacks and Hopmythumbs to fight the giants every day,
Just as those splendid fairy-story books of mine all say.

I wouldn't charge a penny for admittance to my show.

Of course, 'twould be a most expensive thing to run, I know.
But I could well afford it. I could make that circus pay
By selling off the golden eggs the gold egg hen would lay.

John Kendrick Bangs.

 JOAN OF ARC.
Every one knows the story of Joan of Arc, and it never fails to be interesting from whatever point you
look at it or study it. But a good many boys and girls think of the story, as they do of many another
read in school histories, as being nothing more than one of many lessons learned and to be learned.
There is a great deal in the history of Joan's short life that is interesting as a practical story, to say
nothing of any other interest.
The little Joan of Arc was born in the southern central part of France, in a little village called Domremy,
partly in Lorraine and partly in Champagne, 484 years ago, and though she led armies in some of the
most famous battles ever fought in France, and crowned a king, she never reached the age of twenty,
and never learned to read or write. Her father and mother were peasants in Domremy and were poor,
as peasants in France always have been—so poor that little Joan had to begin early to do her part of
the work, which meant three meals a day to the family.
When she was old enough her father used to send her to watch over the sheep all day long in the fields
and woods near their home, and all through these long hours, in the heat of summer or the cold of fall
or spring, she had nothing to do but think and watch sheep grazing. It was a strange age in France four
centuries and a half ago. People generally believed in visions, in miracles, in supernatural powers, and
were easily influenced by fanaticism and enthusiasm in religious and every-day matters. A huge crowd
of men, women, and children would become possessed with some idea, and would leave their daily
work, their shops, their house-keeping, and their games, and rush to market-place or field to carry out
this idea. In many towns the whole inhabitants would give their labor to build an enormous cathedral.
Hundreds of people would catch hold of a long rope, and drag one of the big blocks of stone through a
city's streets to be placed on the cathedral walls, and hundreds of unfortunate people and children were
killed by different kinds of accidents while working in this fanatical way.
Then it was common, too, for some one to say that he or she was inspired by visions and voices to do
or say one thing or another, and the people would rush after the inspired one to hear or to do whatever
was ordered, or to try and be healed by touching the inspired person. Some were rank fakirs, who every
now and then grew rich before they were discovered. Others really believed in all they said and did, and
their confidence in themselves made hundreds of people follow them.
It is a mistake to think this is all gone by nowadays, for as a matter of fact it is not. Only a few years
ago hundreds of people in all the stages of consumption travelled to Berlin to be treated by Dr. Koch,
because he gave out, and no doubt, believed, that he had found a cure for it. At Lourdes, a city in
France, there is to-day a grotto where people go for miles and miles around to be cured of all sorts of
incurable diseases. And if these things attract people to-day, when nobody really believes much in such
matters, you can begin to realize what fearful enthusiasm there must have been in a day when every
one was only too glad to believe such things, and when most persons felt more or less strongly that
they were some day going to have visions or missions of some kind.
It is not so surprising, then, that Joan, after spending several years day after day alone in the fields,
occasionally hearing about all the troubles and wars in France, and having hours and hours when she
could do nothing but think, should have thought she was inspired with a mission to save her country
from the English invaders, and that, once perfectly persuaded of this, she should have quickly had a lot
of people running after her and spreading her fame abroad.
Another thing was not so unusual as it seems to-day. Joan, when she finally saw Charles VII. of France,
and persuaded him that he was the real King of France, and that all they had to do was to march to
Rheims and crown him—Joan wore a suit of man's armor. She was only eighteen years old, and a
delicate girl of middle height. It was unusual, of course, for so young a girl to go to war, but in those
days women led bodies of men, and some of them wore armor. Women, who by birth and the absence
of male relatives had been left in charge of large feudal estates, had to keep little armies to protect
their lands and fields from attack, and when such attacks did come they had to go out in many cases
and lead their men themselves.
So that while her visions, her calm confidence, and her male dress were enough to attract attention,
they did not seem so impossible to the people of her time by a great deal as they would to the people
of to-day. And then, also, everybody was ready to follow any "inspired" person who foretold anything
which really happened, or who carried out what he or she started to do. Joan, after going to the King
and telling him that if he followed her he would become the crowned King of France, began to find
everyone following her, believing in her just as calmly as she believed in herself. The Englishmen had
invaded the north of France and held the city of Paris, and the great Duke of Burgundy was in league
with them. They wanted to crown Henry VI. of England, King of France also, and they marched
southward and captured Orleans, which practically opened southern France to them.
Joan told King Charles VII. that she could recapture Orleans, and crown him King at Rheims, and in a
little while he gave her five or six thousand men. Mounted on her white horse, in full armor, she led
these men on, and by her confidence and vigor and good common-sense, persuaded the generals to
attack Orleans in a certain way. Half a dozen times the besiegers were practically defeated, and would
have gone back, but Joan staid before the city gates, and no one could make her turn back. Such
perfectly fearless conduct acted just as it has always acted, just as it acted a thousand times in the civil
war, in the Revolution, and everywhere else. The men grew crazy with enthusiasm, and rushed again
and again after Joan at the defences of the city, with the result that they finally captured it.
Then any one was ready to follow the young girl, except her enemies at court; and when she ordered
King, court, army, and all to go quickly northward into the part of France within the English control, they
followed. The result was that Charles VII. was crowned King, and the first man crowned meant a great
deal then. It was all done by a combination of shrewd common-sense, and the extraordinary willingness
to believe absolutely in inspired people and follow them with religious enthusiasm, which always has
been in history an irresistible force.
Afterward Paris was attacked, but as soon as Joan was wounded the attack was dropped. Experienced
generals could not make men fight the way this girl could, though she knew nothing of military tactics,
and had never led anything but sheep before.
All this time the English were trying to capture Joan, and then prove her to be a sorceress, in order to
show that any person crowned through her agency must of course be the wrong man. Hence Henry VI.
could be crowned and recognized as the real King of France. They did finally buy her of one of the Duke
of Burgundy's vassals; and then began a bogus trial to prove she was a sorceress, since merely putting
her to death without proving some evil agency in her work would only make her a martyr. Charles VII.,
once being King, did not know exactly what to do with Joan, so he took no steps to rescue her from the
English, and they spent many weary days in trying to make her say something which could be used to
prove she was a sorceress. Failing in this, for she believed too strongly in herself and in her visions to
alter her statements, they killed her by burning her alive in the streets of Rouen, in 1431, with the
result that she became a martyr at once, and her work for France became the sacred belief of all French
people. And in all the sad and fascinating story, the most interesting and wonderful point is the courage,
the bravery, and the wonderful brain which a young girl of nineteen or twenty had to sway men and
capture cities and crown Kings.
 THE LITTLE JOAN.

See "Joan of Arc," Page 1039.

Two important matters were attended to at the meeting of the New York Interscholastic Athletic
Association last Tuesday. One was the question which football rules shall govern the contests held under
the supervision of the association this fall, and the other was in regard to the formation of a National
Interscholastic Amateur Athletic Association.
There was so much business of immediate local importance for the association to transact that it was
not until late in the afternoon that the question of organizing the National I.S.A.A.A. could be brought
up. But when it was brought up the representatives of the schools were unanimous in their opinion that
the scheme should be put through, and it was immediately voted that the matter be taken up by the
association, sitting as a committee of the whole, at their next meeting. The first step in the matter has
now been taken, and we may consequently look forward confidently to a new and brilliant era in the
history of school sports.
As to the football rules, but little discussion was necessary. The constitution of the N.Y.I.S.A.A. specifies
that all games of the N.Y.I.S.F.B.A. shall be played under the rules of the Inter-collegiate F.B.A., and as
that association this year consists merely of Yale and Princeton, the New York school games will be
conducted according to the newly made Yale-Princeton or Inter-collegiate regulations. As this code is,
beyond any doubt, the best one of the three at present in use, it is fortunate that the constitution of the
N.Y.I.S.A.A. was so worded as to provide for their adoption.
There is no doubt that if a National Interscholastic A.A.A. be formed, a team of athletes from the
Oakland High-School in California will come on to compete at the first meeting. They are thoroughly in
earnest out there. A couple of weeks ago I quoted from the San Francisco papers, which contained
more or less accurate reports of these young sportsmen's intentions, but since then I have received a
copy of the High-School Ægis, Oakland High-School's paper in which there is an article entitled "The
Prospective Eastern Trip." It is too long to quote entire in these columns, but a few paragraphs from it
cannot fail to be of interest. The article begins by saying that,
"Through the efforts of Harper's Round Table, a United States Interscholastic Athletic Association bids fair
to be formed, and if the consolidation takes place, the first field day will be held at New York city in
June, 1896. The association will consist of all academies, preparatory and high schools in the United
States which are of enough prominence in athletics to be eligible. It will be a far greater organization in
point of numbers than the Inter-collegiate Association. New England will have thirty schools
represented, New York eighteen, Long Island five, and Pennsylvania twelve, besides many other schools
in different parts of the country."
The Ægis is certainly correct in saying that, in point of numbers, the National I.S.A.A.A. would be
greater than the I.C.A.A.A. New England would certainly have more than thirty schools represented, for
there are thirty schools in the N.E.I.S.A.A. alone, and many important institutions outside the
organization that would certainly join. There are also the Maine, the Connecticut, the Western
Massachusetts, the New York State, the Pittsburg, the Cook County (Illinois), the Dartmouth, and many
other associations, which, by joining, would bring the membership, reckoned in schools, up to the
hundreds.
In view of such a representative gathering of the schools of this country, the Ægis is perfectly justified
in remarking that "the school which wins the meet at Mott Haven next June will be the champion
academic school of the world; truly a great distinction." And continuing, it asks: "Why should not the
Oakland High-School be this school? We have good athletes, who are capable of upholding the honor of
the school in any kind of company and on any field." With such a spirit as this the Oakland athletes
cannot fail to be prominent in any contest they may enter.
The general plan of the trip East, to be made by the O.H.-S. team, is to come directly to New York viâ
Denver and Chicago. The present idea is to reach here early in June, and to arrange a series of dual
games with some of the larger schools. Says the Ægis:
"The crack schools of the East, with which the O.H.-S. team would compete, are Andover and Worcester
academies in New England, and Barnard School of New York. A comparison of their records with the
records of those athletes now in school, in addition to the probable records of the next field day, shows
that we do not suffer by the contrast. The fact must be also taken into consideration, that we have
nearly a year to improve in, which the Eastern schools do not have, their track athletics ending with the
spring term, while ours continue into winter. The time in the 220-yard dash and 220-yard hurdle race is
made straightaway, while our records are made on a curved track, and a very poor one at that. The
difference in time is nearly a second and a half, which brings our record in the 220-yard dash down to
about 23-4/5 seconds, which is very good."
The return trip might be made over the Northern route, if the O.H.-S. team can arrange for games with
the Multnomah A.C. of Portland, Oregon.
The amount of money necessary to defray all the expenses that would be incurred in coming East is
estimated by the California athletes at $2500. They propose to collect this sum from the members and
alumni of the school, from an entertainment to be given, and from contributions by the business men of
Oakland. They also count on making some profit from their share of the gate receipts at the various
games in which the team will compete. Again, I cannot urge too strongly upon the leaders of athletics
in our Eastern schools the desirability and advisability of encouraging these California sportsmen to
come East. It will give interscholastic sport a great boom in every way, and raise the standard and
importance of school contests. I have no doubt whatever that, as soon as the Eastern trip of the O.H.-S.
team is definitely decided upon, Andover, Worcester, Hartford H.-S., Barnard, Cutler, and many other
schools will be eager to arrange dates for dual games.
There is such a great number of school football teams in and about Boston, that it is impossible, of
course, to include them all in one association. Even the original I.S.F.B.A. has found it necessary to
divide itself into a Senior and a Junior League, so great was its membership. And so, as rapidly as new
teams crop up and find there is no room for them in existing associations, they will form new
organizations themselves, and eventually, no doubt, the great scholastic games of the year will be
between the winning elevens of different associations, just as the principal scholastic football game
hereabouts is that between the teams representing the New York I.S.F.B.A. and the Long Island
I.S.F.B.A.
The Suburban High-School League is second in importance, in the neighborhood of Boston, only to the
old association made up of the Boston and Cambridge schools. It is only a year old, but it is in a thriving
condition, the principal schools of its membership being the Medford, Malden, Melrose, and Winchester
High-Schools. The championship last year, the first of the League's existence, was won by Malden H.-S.,
whose team defeated Medford H.-S., 10-0, in the final game of the season. This fall the Suburban
League teams will start playing their championship games on November 2d, when Medford and
Winchester meet at Medford, and Malden and Melrose come together at Melrose. The two winning
teams will decide the championship on the 9th.
The Malden H.-S. team is in better condition at this early date than any of its rivals in the League.
Captain Flanders, who has been a member of the team for three years, is putting his men through a
course of training that is developing all there is in them. He is a capable player himself, having held
almost every position on the team. In his first year he was used in the rush line, and finally occupied
one end. The next year he went in at right half-back, and this season he will play full-back. He is a
strong runner, and is better at half than anywhere else; although at full he will probably do a good deal
of running with the ball, and play close up as a sort of third half-back most of the time. Swain at left
guard has also played three years on the team. He is the heaviest man in the aggregation, and there is
no better man in the League at breaking through or making holes. Priest will leave end and go to right
half-back, and Atwood will be taken from the line, too, to go in as Priest's partner. Both men will require
considerable coaching, but Atwood is a fast sprinter, and ought to turn out well in his new position.
The Medford H.-S. team is made up mostly of new men, but it is full of good material. Captain
McPherson has had experience on the team for two years, and will have good control over his men, his
position being at quarter. But he has a hard row to hoe, and will deserve no end of credit if he moulds
all this awkward and green energy into a team of players by November 2d. At Melrose the prospects are
but little better. The new men are light, and most of them are inexperienced, only two ever having
played on school teams before. These two, Harris and Libby, will no doubt take care of the ends, as
they seem best fitted for those positions. If necessary, Libby can go in at quarter. The material back of
the line is unusually light, even for a school team. Bemis, however, is a hard runner, and tackles well,
and will no doubt be the regular full-back. The other candidates are a little slow in their work, and are
much in need of vigorous coaching. They could well spend an hour of every morning in passing and
falling on the ball.
There is good material at Winchester, although only three of last year's eleven are again in school. The
lack of old players, however, is amply compensated for by the enthusiasm of the new, and I shall expect
to see Winchester well up toward the top of the ladder at the end of the season. Ordway, the Captain
and full-back, has played on the team two years, and is a good man to give the ball to. He gets around
the ends in good style, and is not afraid of bucking the centre. Thus far the candidates are playing well
together, although they are a little slow at breaking up interference, and sometimes fail to follow the
ball as closely as they should. In a word, their aggressive play is better than their defensive work. The
latter should receive attention.
Andover's play in the recent game against Boston College was quick and snappy, and of a kind that may
well give Lawrenceville some anxiety. P. A. rolled up 22 points in two fifteen-minute halves, and came
pretty near scoring four more as time was called. The Boston men were heavier, but lacked the training
which clearly characterized Andover's work. Douglass was put in at half in place of Goodwin, who is
temporarily laid up, and made the star play of the game. It occurred at the opening of the second half.
Andover kicked off, and Boston returned it. Douglass caught the ball about in the centre of the field,
and ran. He dodged half the Boston team, and crossed the line for a touch-down. Butterfield did good
work likewise, making several gains through the line. The Andover men seemed to have no trouble in
making holes in the Boston College line, and after each play the forwards were noticeably quick in lining
up. Andover is going to have a good team.
The Exeter eleven is pretty well knocked out. Half the men who were in good shape two weeks ago are
more or less seriously injured now, and it is probable that the P.E.A. team this year will be as poor a one
as has represented the school for some time. This condition of affairs is due not so much to poor
material as to bad judgment on the part of the captain and the manager. Before the team was in any
condition to perform such hard work, games were arranged with Tufts College, Boston A.A., M.I.T., and
Dartmouth. Each one of these teams was heavier than the Exeter eleven, and as a result several P.E.A.
men are limping about the Academy grounds, and one or two men will not play football again this fall.
The game against Dartmouth, especially, was hard for Exeter. In bucking the Hanover rush-line five of
P.E.A.'s best men were hurt.
The most serious loss was Hawkins, the quarter-back. The other men behind the line had come to
depend considerably upon him, and when Martin was put in his place they went to pieces. Perhaps they
should be not too severely blamed for this, for Martin is a wretched player and ought never to be
allowed at quarter-back again until he learns a good deal more about the game. In the Tufts game
Martin passed the ball on more than one occasion to his opponents. When Thomas took his place in the
second half there was a slight recovery from the previous demoralization, but P.E.A. did no scoring. If
Exeter had arranged her games against lighter and weaker teams in the early part of the season, and
had fixed the dates with these older men for now and the following weeks, her players would have been
better able to stand the hard work required of them.
It is just this sort of thing that brings football into disrepute with people who don't know anything about
the game. They see in the papers that Brown, Jones, and Robinson are hurt as a result of playing
football. They do not stop to reflect that possibly Brown, Jones, and Robinson had no business playing
the game, but at once decry football. Possibly if Brown, Jones, and Robinson had been put on
horseback and trotted around a field they would have been much lamer, and certainly they would have
been much more liable to get their necks broken. Take two elevens in training and let them play a
game; there will be no one hurt in all probability. Take twenty-two men who are not in any kind of
training and set them loose on a gridiron for two fifteen-minute halves and see how many doctors you
will need at the end of the game. That's the secret of most of the outcry against football. Half the men
who get hurt would not have gotten hurt if they had gone at it properly, and it is almost always of these
fellows that the general public gets reports. There is a good deal for the general public to learn about
football.
There is one good thing I notice in the methods of the Chicago High-School teams. They play only
fifteen-minute halves in their football matches, and that is a very proper arrangement for the early part
of the season. Young players cannot stand the strain of full-time play at first, and it is the height of folly
to try to play two thirty-five-minute halves at present. Even the big college teams do not attempt such
severe work, playing usually twenty or twenty-five minute halves until the 1st of November, by which
time the men have become seasoned, and are able to stand the exertion of full-time play. School teams
should begin by playing short halves, gradually lengthening them until the full time is reached two or
three weeks before the important game. At first it is even better to play three periods of ten minutes,
with a short rest between each, than two fifteen-minute halves with only one rest. It all depends on the
size and strength of the men who are playing, and the Captain must be the judge in these matters. His
idea should be to get the greatest development with the smallest possible strain on his men.
The Junior League schedule of the New England F.B.A. has been arranged, and several matches have
already been played. The dates are as follows:
Roxbury High—October 11th, Newton High at Newton; October 19th, Chelsea at Franklin Park;
November 2d, Roxbury Latin at South End Grounds; November 9th, Dedham at Dedham; November
20th, Somerville at Somerville; November 23d, Hyde Park at Franklin Park.
Chelsea High—October 19th, Roxbury High at Franklin Park; October 23d, Somerville at Somerville;
October 26th, Roxbury Latin at Brookline Common; November 1st, Newton at Chelsea; November 7th,
Hyde Park at Chelsea; November 16th, Dedham at Dedham.
Roxbury Latin—October 18th, Hyde Park at Hyde Park; October 26th, Chelsea High at Brookline
Common; October 30th, Somerville High at Somerville; November 2d, Roxbury High at South End;
November 8th, Newton High at Newton; November 13th, Dedham High at Dedham.
Dedham High—October 14th, Somerville at Somerville; October 25th, Newton at Newton; November
1st, Hyde Park at Dedham; November 9th, Roxbury High at Dedham; November 13th, Roxbury Latin at
Dedham; November 16th, Chelsea at Dedham.
Somerville High—October 14th, Dedham at Somerville; October 23d, Chelsea; October 30th, Roxbury
Latin; November 12th, Hyde Park; November 20th, Roxbury High; November 22d, Newton High.
Hyde Park High—October 18th, Roxbury Latin at Hyde Park; November 1st, Dedham High at Dedham;
November 7th, Chelsea High at Chelsea; November 12th, Somerville High at Somerville; November
15th, Newton High at Newton; November 23d, Roxbury High at Franklin Park.
Newton High—October 11th, Roxbury High at Newton; October 25th, Dedham High at Newton;
November 1st, Chelsea High at Chelsea; November 8th, Roxbury Latin at Newton; November 15th,
Hyde Park at Newton; November 22d, Somerville High at Somerville.
The winner of the series meets the tail-ender of the Senior League to determine whether or not they
shall exchange places next season.
The Graduate.

This Department is conducted in the interest of stamp and coin collectors, and the Editor will be pleased
to answer any question on these subjects so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor
Stamp Department.
The dull season just ended has been extremely interesting from the fact that a large number of stamps
have been advancing in value by leaps and bounds. So many new collectors have come into the field
that the supply of scarce and rare stamps has been much smaller than the demand. This has been the
case especially in unused U.S. stamps to such a degree that dealers have refused to sell, calculating
that they would make more money by holding off. The Department stamps have scored the greatest
advance. The Executives, sold a few years ago for $4 or $5 per set, command $25 to $30 to-day. The
Justice set, which could be bought for $8 or $10 a set, are difficult to find at $80 or $90. Even the